


The Fire We Make

by 0_jtboi_SR2



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, cass ain't straight y'all, it's not super graphic but the're some sexy times, nsfw-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2019-01-20 03:48:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12424410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0_jtboi_SR2/pseuds/0_jtboi_SR2
Summary: Trevelyan, embarrassed by a uncomfortable interaction at the training yards, tries to compose an apology to Cassandra.  Unfortunately, the wrong version of her note gets delivered.Based on the letter mix-up in Ian McEwan's "Atonement."





	The Fire We Make

**Author's Note:**

> Just a (somewhat) brief one-shot that popped into my head. The Trevelyan here is pretty much based on my canon Inky, Everly, even though she is not named.

Trevelyan hated the heat. She cast a glance skyward, then made a face as she exited Commander Cullen’s office. The sun beat down on the battlements and she could see distorted waves rising from the baking stone as she darted down the stairs to escape to Skyhold’s lower courtyard. Usually, the mountain air was sharp and crisp. Today it burned like dragon’s breath, heavy and unrelenting. Sweat prickled at the short hairs at her temples and the tunic she wore was stifling, even though it was the lightest one she owned. 

She muttered curses under her breath as she trudged towards the entrance to the main hall, and beyond that, her quarters. Avoiding the thick, dense heat of summer was part of the appeal of the mountain fortress, and Trevelyan irritated that one of its main attributes had disappeared. 

Although, she supposed part of her aggravation had to do with the dinner she was hosting that evening. 

Rumors had swirled around the Inquisition ever since the organization had been founded, but perhaps the most damaging (and, ironically enough, the most ridiculous) was the allegation that Divine Justinia was actually alive, and the chaos threatening to engulf all of Thedas had been engineered on her orders. To combat the wild stories, Josephine had arranged a visit with one of the nobles peripherally involved in the matter. Comte Renald de Mourier, a portly, self-obsessed man, had arrived earlier this morning, with an entourage that was far larger than his title would suggest. Trevelyan had escorted them around all of Skyhold with a wide smile plastered to her face, delightedly espousing all the Inquisition's good deeds and none-too-subtly waving her left hand, giving them all a good view of the vivid, burning magic on her palm. It had been exhausting. 

Now, in the late afternoon, the Comte and his handlers had retired to their quarters for a brief rest and to prepare for dinner. The rest of Skyhold had also slowed to a crawl as most of its residents gradually ceased working, taking a respite during the hottest part of the day. Trevelyan, unfortunately, had no such luxury; hosting duties had interfered with the myriad of other tasks she needed to accomplish. There were at least three other meetings scheduled, as well as a pile of correspondence to attend to before dinner. 

As she crossed the courtyard, she saw a familiar sight in the training grounds and her mood immediately brightened. Of course Cassandra would stick resolutely to her training schedule, no matter the conditions. Trevelyan watched as the relentless Seeker battered the training dummies over and over again, the sound of steel hitting wood echoing throughout the empty yard. The only concession she had made to the weather was to remove her breastplate and gauntlets, otherwise it was like any other afternoon. 

Trevelyan turned on her heel and walked over. Their friendship, she suspected, had caught both of them by surprise. On the surface, she had assumed she had little in common with the serious, fierce Seeker. But after a fair amount of prodding, they had eventually bonded over a mutual love of novels and strong ale, discussions about battlefield tactics, and a hatred of political machinations. Trevelyan had discovered that below that crusty exterior was a delightful woman, sharply intelligent with a wonderfully dry sense of humor. 

Trevelyan stopped once she came into Cassandra’s field of view and the Seeker lowered her sword. She bowed her head. She always greeted Cassandra that way, even after they had become less formal with each other. Trevelyan still couldn’t shake the habit, as if something within her wouldn't let her speak until she had performed the required act of genuflection. Cassandra would always nod once, whether in appreciation or bemusement Trevelyan was not sure. 

“It is good to see you,” Cassandra said. “How was the morning?”

Trevelyan made a face. “Dreadful. It’s far too hot for political nonsense.” 

“Since when is your opinion of politics is based upon the weather?” Cassandra’s eyes were hard, as usual, but the corner of her mouth quirked as she spoke. 

The Inquisitor chuckled briefly at the question, then changed the subject. “Are you enjoying your book?” 

Another twitch. “Very much so. Thank you.” 

The Seeker never smiled, at least not fully. The indicators of her amusement were subtle, and Trevelyan had put a fair amount of work into deciphering the small cues Cassandra gave. Mostly it was an act of self-preservation; after the explosion at the Conclave, Trevelyan figured that if there was anyone whose good side she needed to remain on, it was Cassandra’s. She quickly realized she actually enjoyed entertaining the Seeker, and would challenge herself to seek out those tiny victories. A quirk of the brow, a twitch in her upper lip, a brief flash that lit up hazel eyes--all small, seemingly imperceptible moments that Trevelyan collected like trophies. 

Trevelyan found herself grinning at Cassandra’s response. She didn’t regret for one moment telling Varric about Cassandra’s love for his romance series, even though the Seeker had sworn her to secrecy just moments before. The look on Cassandra’s face when they presented her with the sequel to the previously abandoned work had been priceless, even if it meant risking exposure to her formidable temper. 

“How far are you? Have you gotten to chapter ten yet?” Trevelyan felt a sudden surge of energy, despite the stifling heat. She danced around Cassandra, keeping her hands clasped behind her back as she skipped towards the small tree near the line of practice dummies. Trevelyan could feel the weight of the Seeker’s gaze on her, following her movements like a hawk. 

“Not yet,” Cassandra said. 

“You’ll have to let me know when you do. I think you’ll appreciate the twist.”

Cassandra’s eyes narrowed. “What twist? How do you know about it?”

“I may have given Varric some notes on his first draft.”

Restlessly, Trevelyan leapt up to grab hold of the tree branch. She hung down, arms fully extended, and began to swing back and forth. Cassandra rolled her eyes at the absurd display, but Trevelyan was certain she saw a brief flash of amusement cross her face. Another victory. 

“So you are a novelist now? And what do you know of romance?” 

Cassandra waved her sword, as if testing its weight, then playfully jabbed at Trevelyan’s exposed stomach. The weapon was obviously only meant for practice, the edges dulled and nicked, and it was like she was being prodded with a stick more than anything. Playing along, the Inquisitor swung her legs up and drew her knees in to protect herself, then began parrying Cassandra’s attacks with her feet. The blade clanged softly as she kicked at it with her bootheels. Trevelyan’s grin widened. 

“I know enough.” 

“Is that so?” Cassandra arched a brow and continued to poke at the Inquisitor. “No doubt there’s a trail of broken hearts littering the Free Marches from Ostwick to Wycome.” 

Color rose in Trevelyan’s face. “And what of you, Seeker? Surely you’ve been a muse to many a playwright in Orlais.” 

Cassandra snorted derisively, then hastily sheathed her sword. She looked away, staring out over the courtyard with her arms crossed, giving Trevelyan a full view of her magnificent jawline. The Inquisitor thought she saw a blush on Cassandra’s cheeks, but wasn’t sure. It could just as easily been the heat. The Seeker didn’t speak. 

Trevelyan let go of the tree branch and landed softly on the grass below. She brushed off her hands, ignoring the sting in her palms from where the bark of the tree had bit into tender skin. The Anchor flared gently at the motion, then fell dormant again. Anxiety gripped her, followed by a burst of frustration. This had been the tone of their interactions as of late. The conversations which once used to flow so easily were now punctuated by fits and starts, short outbursts and long pauses, heavy with the weight of something Trevelyan had yet to identify. 

She opened her mouth to speak, the silence stretching on uncomfortably long, when she caught a glimpse of something flashing on the ground a few paces in front of her. Grateful for something else to focus on, she knelt down to investigate. It appeared to be a locket of some kind; stepped on countless times and driven into a patch of soft mud near the tree, where the grass had been ripped away by pounding boots. She crept forward and slowly pried the jewelry out of the dirt with her fingertips, letting out a pleased sound when it came free. 

Cassandra stepped forward. “What is that?”

Trevelyan frowned as she brushed the dirt and grime off the ornate piece, the thin chain tangling in her fingers. “A necklace. Someone must have lost this a while ago.” 

“I believe that’s mine, actually.”

Trevelyan twisted away almost instinctively, in disbelief and wonder that the Seeker would own something so refined. “Really?”

“It’s been missing for several weeks. I thought I had lost it.” Cassandra’s eyes widened and her voice became soft. “It was my grandmother’s. It has Anthony’s portrait inside.” 

Trevelyan froze. Cassandra had only mentioned her brother once, in passing, but it was clear that his death was a pivotal and traumatic moment for her. She immediately felt guilty for assuming there was no way the piece belonged to the Seeker. Cassandra quickly reached for the locket, her fingers brushing against Trevelyan’s palm. A sudden, furious jolt shot through the Inquisitor when they touched. Trevelyan jumped and instinctively clasped her hand shut, just as Cassandra was pulling the necklace from her grasp. The chain caught around Trevelyan’s fingers and snapped, sending the locket tumbling back to the ground at their feet. 

“Maker! I’m so sorry!” 

Trevelyan flushed and immediately bent down. Cassandra did the same, and in their haste, their heads collided with a resounding thud. There was a bright flash of pain and Trevelyan fell onto her backside with a grunt, eyes welling with tears. She rubbed at the top of her head--further mussing her already wild hair--muttered another apology, then hauled herself to her feet. Cassandra stood in front of her, fingers curled around the locket, looking no worse for wear. 

“Thank you for finding this. I, um, appreciate it.” 

“Of course.” Trevelyan avoided her gaze, filled with a sense of defeat. 

Cassandra hovered for a moment’s breath. Trevelyan became aware of the heat again, and the uncomfortable way her tunic stuck to her back, the dirt under her fingernails, the lone bead of sweat slowly rolling down her temple. She shifted her weight, squinting as she looked up and into the sun. 

Cassandra spun on her heel and walked away. Trevelyan sighed. 

***

Trevelyan stretched her arms overhead, working out the kinks in her neck and shoulders from hunching over her overflowing desk. She stared down at the letter she had been composing--some nonsense to a noble hardly worth her time--and shoved it aside with an angry sigh. She pulled out a fresh piece of parchment and laid it out in front of her, smoothing it over with the palms of her hands, the reached for her quill. Her hand hovered just above the page. 

All afternoon she had been thinking about what happened in the training yard with Cassandra and been overwhelmed by embarrassment. You’d think she could conduct herself like an adult, for Maker’s sake, and not make an utter fool of herself in the presence of one of the Inquisition’s key officers. She had been trying to compose an apology for hours, though, and kept getting tripped up. Everything she wanted to say sounded trite or condescending or meaningless. Even though their interaction had been brief, Trevelyan felt as if something had occurred, deep below the surface. Something she was having trouble articulating. 

Had she also embarrassed Cassandra? She huffed in frustration at the thought. They had always enjoyed a playful banter--at least, after the Seeker had finally decided that Trevelyan hadn’t been responsible for the explosion at the Conclave. Today had been like any other, with Cassandra’s dry remarks and the hint of amusement playing at the corner of her mouth that she couldn’t quiet conceal. At least, until it abruptly wasn’t. 

Trevelyan put down her quill and leaned back in her chair, lacing her fingers behind her head. She thought of Cassandra in the sun, wearing only her tunic, wielding her sword as if it were an extension of herself. All power and grace and sheer strength, broad shouldered, with a back that could have been carved from stone. Arms that suggested she could easily break a man in two. Even without her armor, Cassandra was always a terrifying and awesome sight to behold. 

But she had looked tender, almost hurt, when Trevelyan had made that last comment. Even though she had said it in a joking manner, Trevelyan realized she had actually been serious. Cassandra, certainly, was death and destruction personified, but she was also stunning. Gorgeous, even. It was obvious to anyone who looked. Trevelyan herself had always been keenly aware of the Seeker’s attractiveness ever since they first met, even if their first introductions came at the point of a sword. It wasn’t so far-fetched to suggest that she would inspire odes to both her prowess on the battlefield and her striking appearance. Her beauty was just as deadly as any weapon she could wield. 

The same restlessness that had plagued Trevelyan earlier in the training yard returned in full force now; a roiling, twisting sensation in her stomach, like something was building up inside her that demanded release. She squirmed in her seat, then leaned forward. The feet of her chair hit the floor with a slam. She snatched up the quill and, before she could stop herself, her hand flew across the page. 

_In my dreams I kiss your cunt, your sweet, wet cunt. In my thoughts I make love to you all day long._

For a long, drawn out moment, Trevelyan stared at what she had written: hastily scrawled, nearly illegible, and entirely inappropriate. 

And then she burst into laughter. 

At first, it was absurd. Utterly absurd. But as she stared at the words scribbled in front of her in stark black and white, the more the truth became apparent. Admittedly, she thought of Cassandra far more than she cared to admit. And if she thought long enough about the Seeker, it was far too easy for those musings to veer into more improper territory. Trevelyan took some comfort in identifying her agitation, but that was the only resolution she expected. She harbored no illusion that Cassandra would feel the same way. It seemed impossible, actually. 

Deciding that it was a problem she would have to solve later, Trevelyan folded the note once, precisely creasing it down the middle, then set it aside. She shook her head. Ah, well. It wasn’t any more vulgar than the romances Cassandra read so eagerly. 

She reached for a new, fresh page and dipped her quill. This time, the apology came easily, free from the block that had stymied her earlier. 

_Dear Cassandra:_

_You would be right in thinking me mad, the way I acted at the training yard today. I feel rather foolish and I am sorry my clumsiness resulted in damage to something dear to you. I would blame the heat, but truthfully there is no excuse. Please forgive me._

_Best,_

_Inq. Trevelyan_

Finally released of her burden, she folded the letter, placing it next to its more graphic sibling, then stood up. She went out onto the balcony. The sun was just starting to disappear behind the Frostbacks, but the heat still had not abated. Her back twinged involuntarily, another reminder of the fact that she had spent the entire afternoon at her desk. Trevelyan exhaled deeply then bent over, groaning as her muscles finally released. She breathed again, thinking of all the things she had yet to accomplish, none of which she would get done before dinner. 

The door to her quarters burst open, and she heard her page, Declan, announce his presence with a grunt. He ascended the stairs slowly, holding a bucket of water in one hand, Trevelyan’s evening outfit tossed over his shoulder, and a stack of letters shoved under an arm. Trevelyan immediately darted forward to assist him. Declan, still a boy by most definitions, even though the Inquisitor was not much older than him, was eager to please and always took on more tasks than necessary. 

Trevelyan grabbed the pile of papers from under his arm, tossing them onto her desk without looking, then took her new suit and laid it out on the unmade bed. No doubt the choice of clothing had been a source of heated debate between Josephine and Vivienne, and Trevelyan could picture the seamstress’s face--a stout, humorless woman--as the two of them bickered back and forth about fabrics and color swatches. The jacket was a dark blue, but thankfully the material seemed light and breathable, and it appeared that she wouldn’t be expected to wear a full formal uniform. 

Declan maneuvered the bucket towards the tub, careful not to slosh any over the side. The tub was massive, and there was only enough for a thin layer of water at the bottom, but Trevelyan didn’t mind. It was plenty for washing up. She thanked the boy when he finished his task, clapping him on the shoulder congenially and offering him a broad smile. Declan blushed slightly but returned the Inquisitor's grin. Trevelyan went back to her desk and sifted through the piles of papers, finding the folded apology she had just written. Quickly sealing it with wax, she handed to the young man, along with a silver from her pocket--more than enough for a few rounds at Herald’s Rest. 

“Please deliver this to Seeker Pentaghast, if you would. And right away--I feel a little silly doing it myself.” 

Declan bowed his head, eyes still wide at the coin now tightly clenched in his fist. “Certainly, my lady!” he said, then took off down the stairs. 

Trevelyan looked at the mess her desk was now in and shook her head. No matter how much she tried to do, there was always more work waiting for her. More expectations. Just like this damn dinner she would do practically anything to get out of. She was sure that in the pile that had just been delivered was yet another memo from Josephine about preferred talking points for this evening, even though Trevelyan had already been sent similar notes at least twice now. 

She sighed and began peeling off her clothes, sticky and soaked with sweat, and sat down in the tub. She splashed the tepid water over her face and neck, then wet her hair and leaned back against the marble tub. For a moment, she sat motionless, eyes closed, enjoying the sensation of water on skin. HEr respite was brief, though, as continued to brood over the dinner and the Comte. Maker, he was insufferable. Her advisors were all scheduled to be in attendance as well, and while the dinner was important to fight the rumors swirling around the Inquisition, she secretly hoped that she could get away without doing too much talking. She expected Leliana and Josephine and Vivienne would handle most of it. Cullen would be there, too, silently sulking in a corner somewhere. 

She wondered if Cassandra would be there. 

A bolt of terror seized her and she shot straight up in the bath. Her eyes flicked over to her desk, visible through the open door to her private bath, littered with papers and maps and scrolls. Trevelyan launched herself out of the tub and ran out of the room, stark naked, heedlessly leaving a trail of large puddles behind her. She rummaged through the papers, dripping water everywhere, her wet fingers smudging the ink of everything she touched. She found one of the notes, still folded neatly down the middle, and wrenched it open so fast it nearly tore in half. 

_Dear Cassandra:_

_You would be right in…_

Trevelyan threw the letter down. 

“Shit, shit, shit!” 

***

Trevelyan had been scolded multiple times about her tendency to run everywhere. The first came from Josephine, who gently reminded her of the importance of appearance and the need to assert a more formal air. Vivienne was more pointed, stating loudly that the Inquisition could ill afford a leader who insisted on acting like an untrained mabari. Leliana was the most pointed of all, shifting her weight ever so slightly to reveal a dagger in her belt after she told Trevelyan to calm down. 

As such, Trevelyan was resigned to frantic speedwalking as she left her quarters and exited the main hall. Red-faced and with sweat pouring down her neck, she began silently praying to Andraste Herself that she could intercept Cassandra before she read the letter. She arrived at the forge to find the Seeker’s quarters empty and eerily quiet, the smiths having taken a day off due to the oppressive heat. 

Trevelyan cursed loudly, then darted back down the stairs and out to the lower courtyard. She quickly crossed the open area, careful to hold her face as neutral as possible, even though panic began to grip her. Her jacket was uncomfortably tight and the thin tunic she had hastily thrown on underneath was already sticking to her back and chest. She desperately wanted to undo the front buttons--shining, freshly burnished brass, of course--but resisted the urge. Trevelyan shot up the stairs and into the main hall she had just left, and promptly collided with something tall, strong, and extremely irritated. 

Cassandra’s eyes were hard and her mouth was drawn into a thin line. She was dressed similarly as Trevelyan; dark blue jacket and white breeches, although hers did not have the additional gold trim as the Inquisitor’s. The Seeker’s presence at dinner was obviously expected, then, and for a fleeting moment Trevelyan thought that Cassandra’s ire could possibly be a result of her mandatory attendance, and not the letter. Her hopes were immediately dashed when she saw the Seeker’s eyes flash. 

Trevelyan straightened, drawing herself up to her full height. She looked directly at Cassandra. “It was not meant to be read.”

“Indeed.” 

Cassandra’s reply, short and clipped, punctured the space between them like a dagger. Trevelyan shifted her weight and clasped her hands behind her back. Even though her face began to redden even more, she didn’t look away. Traffic in the main hall was steadily increasing, as members of both the Inquisition and the Comte’s entourage were filing in. Trevelyan caught a view of Cullen out of the corner of her eye, looking uncomfortable and put-upon, as usual. Leliana was hovering in a far corner near the banquet table, serenely evaluating every new arrival. De Mourier had yet to arrive. Trevelyan could feel the attention gradually turn towards her and the Seeker, still locked in a staring match. Cassandra realized it too, and she let out a sound of frustration, then inclined her head and turned away. 

Trevelyan followed her as they walked past the banquet table and assorted guests. The Inquisitor kept her eyes forward, looking squarely at Cassandra’s back, ignoring any stares or stray comments tossed in their direction. Cassandra’s pace quickened--whether subconsciously or not, Trevelyan wasn’t sure--and soon they had ducked through the nearest door, down a short hallway, and entered Josephine’s office. 

The room was immaculate, of course, a far cry from the state of Trevelyan’s quarters. The desk was polished and clean, without a hint of stray paper anywhere; the bookshelf just behind it precisely organized. Even the chairs were placed just so, at the exact angle to afford each occupant a view of both the fire and the rest of the room. The fireplace was empty, the coals long ago shoveled out, and would probably remain so until the heat finally broke. Only two of the wall torches were lit: the one nearest Josephine’s desk, and the one by the door to the war room. 

Cassandra turned on her heel, then crossed her arms and arched a brow expectantly. Somehow, her eyes were gleaming even in the dim lighting. 

“I’m so sorry,” Trevelyan said. “It was the wrong...version.” 

“What was in the version I was meant to read?” Cassandra’s voice was still curt. 

Trevelyan grimaced. “It was more formal, and less--”

“Anatomical?”

“Yes.” 

Cassandra looked away. Trevelyan sighed and ran a hand through her hair. “Again, I apologize. It was completely inappropriate. I don’t know what I was thinking. Can we just pretend it never happened? Please?” 

The Seeker remained silent. 

Trevelyan felt a surge of anger and embarrassment that quickly turned to desperation. Cassandra was nothing if not brutally straightforward, and drawing this matter out was a torture Trevelyan hadn’t expected. She had hoped she could sincerely apologize, they could both just forget about it, and go back to how it was before. 

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Cassandra spoke. 

“Is it true?’

“What?” Trevelyan blinked. “What difference does that make?” 

“It makes all the difference,” Cassandra said, voice breaking. She shifted, wrapping her arms around herself, and turned back to Trevelyan. Her gaze was gentle--soft, even--and a look crossed her face that Trevelyan had never seen before. The Seeker, in all of her strength and beauty and power, looked lost. “You just say these things...like it’s a joke. Like it doesn’t matter.” 

It took Trevelyan a moment to grasp what Cassandra was talking about, and suddenly she understood this was about much more than just an errant letter. She took a single, cautious step forward. “I-I did not intend to upset you. I think you’re extraordinary. I always have.” 

Cassandra exhaled heavily, like she’d been holding her breath for weeks. She uncrossed her arms, glanced down at her hands, then crossed her arms again. Shadows danced across her face, accenting the strong line of her jaw and curve of her lips. “I think the same of you. For quite some time now. I had thought perhaps it would eventually fade. But it hasn’t.” She paused and cleared her throat. “In fact, it keeps getting stronger.” 

Trevelyan was moving before she even realized it. Two quick steps was all it took to close the distance between them, and without hesitating, she reached for Cassandra and pulled her into a kiss. The Seeker let out a soft gasp, but then her hands came up and clutched the back of Trevelyan’s head. Trevelyan pressed against the taller woman, her fingers digging into Cassandra’s hips.

They broke apart suddenly, breathless and still clutching at each other, as if the reality of what just happened hit them both simultaneously. They were on the precipice now, and either one of them could still turn back. But if they continued forward, even a little, Trevelyan knew it would be as if she threw herself over a cliff. Her heart began to pound. She couldn’t let go, but also could not bring herself to move. 

Trevelyan gazed into Cassandra’s face, so close her beauty almost hurt. In the glow of the lamp light, she saw the Seeker’s lips curve into a half-smile. Cassandra nodded once, very faintly. Then leaned forward and kissed her again. 

All semblance of control vanished. 

Trevelyan gripped Cassandra’s hips and walked her backwards, pushing her up against the bookcase. Their kissing became more raw, more feverish, as each laid claim to the other. Cassandra bit down hard, and Trevelyan tasted blood in her own mouth. Trevelyan surged forward in response, pressing her entire body into Cassandra and pushing her thigh between the Seeker’s legs. 

Cassandra’s hands were on her face, then trailed down her neck to the buttons on her coat and started pulling impatiently. The stifling garment fell to the floor, and Trevelyan felt the sweet relief of air on her arms and neck. Cassandra pushed her away just enough to remove her own, and then came back together, their tunics the only barrier preventing skin from touching skin. Trevelyan’s mouth went to Cassandra's exposed neck, and she ran her tongue and teeth down to her collarbone, tasting salt and spice and flames. Cassandra grabbed the back of Trevelyan’s head, tightly clutching at thick hair, growling as she bit at the Inquisitor’s ear. 

It was like she had stepped outside of herself. Her vision was swimming and she felt dizzy with lust. The heat was nearly unbearable, compounded by the warmth radiating from Cassandra’s body and the effort to keep her pinned against the bookcase. Something was building up within her now, something hot and darkly primal, driving her towards one specific outcome. Trevelyan welcomed it. If heat and want were to be her undoing tonight, then so be it. 

Trevelyan let out a low, guttural noise, then slipped her hand under Cassandra’s tunic. Hard abdominal muscles twitched and rippled beneath her touch, and the Seeker’s hips bucked, pressing forward to find purchase against Trevelyan’s thigh. With a boldness she didn’t know she possessed, she slid her hand down further, down the front of Cassandra’s breeches. She paused here, just as her fingertips brushed against soft curls, still having the presence of mind to stop herself. Trevelyan breathed against Cassandra’s neck, waiting, until she heard the Seeker hiss into her ear. Her voice sent shivers down Trevelyan’s spine. 

“Yes.” 

Slowly, she pressed forward, the moment marked by a surprised gasp from Cassandra, as her fingers immediately found what they were searching for. Cassandra’s hand clutched the back of Trevelyan’s head and the other shot out to grab at the nearest shelf, her nails clawing into the wood to find purchase. They began to make love against the bookcase, instinctively falling into a rhythm as if it was their only purpose in the entire world. Faith was a topic they rarely, if ever, discussed, as Trevelyan could not honestly say she had ever believed much in the Maker, even after her ascendance as Herald. But here, as she felt the room close in on them and time itself stilled, it wasn’t hard to imagine some other presence with them, witnessing the act and binding them together in an unspoken union. 

Vaguely, she was aware of her other responsibilities--the Comte, the dinner, her earlier neglected duties--but all of that ceased to matter. She couldn’t bring herself to care about any of it, not with the way Cassandra was moving against her and the sounds she was making; low, feral growls that turned into high pitched moans. Cassandra’s knees began to buckle and Trevelyan dug her left hand into the Seeker’s backside, the Anchor now flaring and burning like a brand. She pressed harder against the Seeker, straining to keep her upright as their pace increased. Trevelyan’s arms and wrist burned from the exertion but she paid it no mind. All she cared about was this woman and her pleasure, all she wanted was to feel this gorgeous body shatter beneath her and then build it back up again, over and over until there was nothing left to take. 

Trevelyan heard her name. Cassandra was saying it into her ear, repeating it over again almost like an invocation. Trevelyan tried to do the same, but all she could manage was a single, broken syllable against the Seeker’s neck. Cassandra said her name again, louder this time, and Trevelyan realized she was telling her to stop. 

“I hear someone.”

Trevelyan froze. Heavy footfalls struck just outside the door, followed by a pair of voices. She didn’t recognize who it was, nor could she discern whether they were about to entire the office. Not that it mattered, though. The moment was over. 

Cassandra was walking away before Trevelyan even realized it; her jacket back on and her breeches done up, as if nothing had even happened. She left through the door without a word, meeting whoever was on the other side fearlessly and without shame. 

Trevelyan tumbled forward, collapsing into the space where Cassandra had just been. She leaned against the bookcase, now a little less sturdy than it had been before. Gasping for air, neck and chest slick with sweat, she tried to steady herself. She let out a long, shaky breath then straightened, wiping off her hand on her shirttail and tucking it back into her breeches. Then she smoothed down her hair, reached for her jacket, and left the room. 

“Where have you been?”

Immediately, she was accosted by Leliana, her pale blue eyes flashing. Usually the spymaster looked blankly inscrutable, but obviously Trevelyan’s absence had raised her ire. Her sharp gaze roved over the Inquisitor. 

“S-sorry,” Trevelyan stammered in response, a hot blush running up her cheeks. “It’s the heat. I wasn’t feeling well.” 

One look told her that Leliana didn’t believe that in the slightest. The spymaster arched a brow, then the mask returned. With an audible snap, she produced a handkerchief and thrust it into Trevelyan’s hand. 

“Well, I hope you’re feeling better. Josephine’s nearly had an heart attack waiting for you.” She paused. “And wipe your mouth.” 

Trevelyan dabbed at the corner of her mouth, swiping at the blood Cassandra had drawn earlier. The thought sent a shudder straight to her core. She silently followed Leliana into the main hall, which was now full of activity, all centered around the long dining table. Trevelyan kept her eyes forward and her shoulders back, keenly aware that her late appearance was drawing everyone’s attention. She affixed a pleasant smile to her face as she walked alongside the length of the table. Cassandra was already seated, and she forced herself to ignore the Seeker as she reached the figure seated at the head. 

“Your Lordship, please forgive my tardiness. Unfortunately, the heat made me quite ill.” Trevelyan bowed slightly, then slid into the empty seat to Cassandra’s left. Across from her, Josephine was staring daggers into her skull. She mouthed a silent apology, then set her attention on the Comte. 

“Oh, that’s quite understandable. It is unseasonably warm for this time of year, no?” Comte Renald de Mourier said, sitting back in his chair. His face, as always, was obscured by an elaborate silver and gold mask, bejeweled and glittering. It was as an ostentatious display of wealth as his massive gut, on top of which he rested his folded hands, a perfect image of a man accustomed to a certain standard of living. Being from the Heartlands, Trevelyan figured de Mourier’s vaults had to be just as full as his stomach. She remembered blanching when she saw the supply order made in preparation for his visit. 

“We were just discussing the rumors surrounding the Inquisition and Divine Justinia’s death,” Josephine said amiably, quickly hiding her annoyance at the Inquisitor. 

“Ah, yes! Such a nasty business. If you only heard some of the dreadful things people were saying! Why, just a fortnight ago, my cousin told me…” 

Trevelyan tried to keep focused on him, wearing the same placid smile, but then she heard Cassandra shift in her seat and let out a small, frustrated groan. Trevelyan’s jaw clenched. She remembered all the other sounds Cassandra had been making only moments before, and was suddenly consumed with the desire to hear them all over again, to feel Cassandra move underneath her, to hear her cry out in pleasure. 

Trevelyan gritted her teeth and glanced over at the Seeker. Cassandra looked past her, keeping her dark eyes on the Comte, and shifted again, slowly crossing her legs. Trevelyan’s gaze trailed down Cassandra’s thighs. Her face began to flush. 

“...so naturally it’s imperative that the Inquisition intervene directly. Wouldn’t you agree, Lady Inquisitor?”

Trevelyan’s head jerked. “Yes, of course, Your Lordship.” 

De Mourier brightened visibly, even from behind his mask, and Trevelyan could easily envision the sly grin already spreading across his face. Immediately, her mistake was clear. She dare not even look at Josephine, positive her ambassador would have incinerated her on the spot if she could. 

“Wonderful! So you’ll come to Val Foret straightaway?” The Comte rubbed his hands together eagerly. He could not have looked more like a caricature if he tried. 

Trevelyan forced her smile wider. “Certainly.” 

He raised his wine goblet in acknowledgement of whatever pact Trevelyan had agreed to, and the Inquisitor mimicked the gesture, swallowing back the sour taste in her mouth. As she brought her own goblet to her face, though, she realized she had made another mistake. She caught Cassandra’s scent, heady and sweet, still on her hand and it made her lightheaded. She set the goblet down, perhaps a bit harder than she intended, and wiped at her mouth, catching a brief taste of Cassandra against her lips. Trevelyan wondered if it was possible to go mad with desire. 

“Are you alright, Inquisitor?” De Mourier asked. 

“Yes, quite fine, thank you.” 

Trevelyan placed both hands on her thighs, fingers digging into the fabric of her breeches, and glanced around the table. Josephine was absolutely incensed, she knew, but was hiding it well as she immediately pivoted the Comte into to a different conversation topic. Leliana, as always, was unreadable, but Trevelyan could still sense a wave of disappointment radiating off her. Vivienne just kept drinking, already bored with the relatively minor noble. Cullen looked like he was going to fall asleep. The Inquisitor let out a shaky sigh. 

Under the table, out of sight from the rest of their companions, she felt Cassandra’s fingers brush gently against hers. 

***

The heat had finally broken. 

The doors leading out onto the balcony were flung wide open, the curtains gently billowing in the breeze. The cool air filled the whole room and Trevelyan practically wept in relief. She stretched languorously, then rolled over onto her side and propped her head up on her hand. 

Cassandra was lying on her stomach, arms tucked underneath her pillow, a small, satisfied smile playing on her lips. The blankets were shoved down to her waist, exposing the broad expanse of her back. Trevelyan moved closer and slid her leg over the back of Cassandra’s thigh, then began lightly running her fingertips over the Seeker’s shoulder blade. 

All things considered, she didn’t get in as much trouble as she thought she would. Granted, the lecture she received from Josephine was scathing, but it was also fair. Her lapse was inexcusable and put the Inquisition in the precarious position of kowtowing to a noble that, in any other circumstances, was not worth the attention or the effort. But Trevelyan could not walk back her promise to personally accompany him to Val Foret without causing even more damage. A heated debate took place in Josephine’s office immediately after dinner, as the ambassador, Leliana, and Vivienne all argued the best way to turn the error into an advantage. Trevelyan had remained silent for most of the meeting, waiting sullenly for whatever orders she would receive, casting the occasional glance towards Leliana, who she was sure knew exactly what had happened in the office just before dinner. The spymaster did not reveal anything, though, only recommending that Foreman Sherice send one of his carpenters to look at the bookcase, now sitting at a slightly odd angle. Trevelyan was grateful at Leliana’s discretion, but wondered what it would ultimately cost her in the long run. 

She had trudged up to her quarters later that evening, frustrated and sweaty and plagued by a ball of tension in her belly that begged for release. Miraculously, Cassandra had appeared at the top of the stairs only moments later; arms crossed, brow arched, and curious to know if the Inquisitor was going to finish what she started. 

Trevelyan had answered her question three times over. 

“Go back to sleep.” 

The Seeker’s voice was still thick and heavy with slumber and her eyes were closed, her accent sounding even more inciting than usual. The order came out sounding more like a purr. 

“And miss this?” Trevelyan kissed Cassandra’s shoulder, then ran her hand down the length of her spine, stopping just at the edge of the blanket covering the curve of her backside. The Seeker shivered. Trevelyan did it again, marveling at the muscles that had so easily come apart under her hands, but then just as quickly hardened into steel, flipping her onto her back and taking her with a force she didn’t know she wanted. 

A single eyelid cracked open. “Flatterer.” 

“Always.” 

“Continue then, if you wish. I’m not the one leaving at daybreak.” 

Trevelyan’s hand stopped. “You’re not coming?”

“I told Cullen I would assist in recruit training this week.” Cassandra slowly opened her eyes and rolled onto her side to face Trevelyan. “I also received some information on the location of Jepler the Unbound. He was seen in the northeastern part of the Emerald Graves. I would like to follow up on that lead.”

Trevelyan groaned and flopped onto her back. She hadn’t given any thought to who would accompany her to Val Floret, other than she had assumed Cassandra would join her. The Seeker usually was at the forefront of all the expeditions. Cassandra had said once that it was only because she was concerned for the Inquisitor’s well-being, although Trevelyan knew now that wasn’t entirely accurate. 

Trevelyan’s chest began to tighten. The travel time to the Heartlands was easily a week, if not more, and de Mourier had the air of a man who did not like to strain himself. So, at least a week and a half to get there, then more time dealing with whatever issue the Comte had, then another week to return to Skyhold. She would nearly be gone a month. A strange feeling gripped her, and she was beset by almost a panic, afraid that this new, unexpected thing between her and Cassandra was too fragile to survive their separation. Like it would evaporate if it wasn’t tended to, as if if had never happened at all. 

As if she could sense Trevelyan’s turmoil, Cassandra caught the Inquisitor’s chin and gently turned her head. “I will be here when you return.” 

“I know, I just…” Trevelyan trailed off. She twisted her head away. Cassandra moved to lay on top of her, keeping most of her weight on one elbow and cupping Trevelyan’s face with her right hand, holding her gaze so she could not look away. Trevelyan’s hands immediately went to the Seeker’s hips. 

“You should write to me while you’re away,” Cassandra said softly. 

Trevelyan stifled a laugh. “You want me to bore you with letters about a fat count’s personal drama?”

“No.” Cassandra pressed into Trevelyan. Her voice became even softer, almost hesitant, but her eyes darkened with pure want. “Like what you wrote today. Tell me what you would do to me.” Her fingers grazed over Trevelyan’s lips. 

A jolt of warmth shot through Trevelyan’s chest and settled between her legs. Her eyes widened and her face flushed. She swallowed twice, very deliberately, before recovering her voice. “Y-you would like that?”

“Yes,” Cassandra whispered shyly, biting at her bottom lip. 

Trevelyan’s fingers dug into Cassandra’s hips and she slowly raised her thigh and pressed it between the Seeker’s legs. She was rewarded with a sharp gasp. 

“I’ll have to borrow a lot of stationary,” she said, pulling at Cassandra’s hips as the Seeker started rocking against her thigh. Cassandra leaned forward, lowering her head to moan against Trevelyan's lips. 

“I think there’s some in Josephine's office.”

**Author's Note:**

> Text of the letter from "Atonement" as well as a few snippets of dialogue.


End file.
